


Bless Me Now with Your Fierce Tears

by sylviarachel



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, Father-Son Relationship, Hospitals, M/M, Offstage injury, nobody dies don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25935865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylviarachel/pseuds/sylviarachel
Summary: Jack’s sprawled on the living-room couch on a Friday after morning skate, watching tape of the Tampa defence, when it happens.  Bitty’s phone rings, and out in the kitchen, Bitty’s voice says cheerfully, “Hey, Mama!” Jack listens with only half an ear.Then the quality of the silence from the kitchen changes, somehow, and Jack pauses the playback, sits up, and turns to look.Bitty’s clutching the phone to his ear with one hand, and clutching the edge of the kitchen island with the other. His face is pale and his eyes are huge and he looks about ten seconds away from bursting into tears.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann
Comments: 50
Kudos: 318
Collections: Fandom Loves Puerto Rico - Charity Fundraiser 2017





	Bless Me Now with Your Fierce Tears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MapleleafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/gifts).



> This fic was commissioned by [MapleLeafCameo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/profile) as part of Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, which y’all may remember was quite a long time ago. So it’s super late, but on the other hand, also super long?? MLC asked for Zimbits hurt/comfort, which this ... kind of is. I hope you like it, MLC! ❤️❤️
> 
> I started writing it before any of Year 4 was published, which means a whole bunch of it has been thoroughly jossed and/or can be considered an AU—especially of everything after 4.11 (“Coach II”).
> 
> Thanks to [zaftig_darling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaftig_darling/profile) for the beta! ❤️ 
> 
> Translations of French bits at the end.

**January 2017**

Jack’s sprawled on the living-room couch on a Friday after morning skate, watching tape of the Tampa defence, when it happens. 

Bitty’s phone rings—Suzanne’s ringtone, a riff from “Papa Don’t Preach,” interrupting the ongoing low-volume Beyoncé marathon—and out in the kitchen, Bitty’s voice says cheerfully, “Hey, Mama!”

Jack listens with only half an ear; for a while after the 2016 Stanley Cup, things were weird with Suzanne and pretty strained with Coach Bittle, but over the half-year since, calls from Suzanne have more or less stopped being something Bitty dreads. Things aren’t perfect, by any means, aren’t always easy, but they’re _better_.

Then the quality of the silence from the kitchen changes, somehow, and Jack pauses the playback, sits up, and turns to look.

Bitty’s clutching the phone to his ear with one hand, and clutching the edge of the kitchen island with the other. His face is pale and his eyes are huge and he looks about ten seconds away from bursting into tears.

Jack’s up off the couch and charging into the kitchen before he quite realizes what he’s doing. Bitty transfers his counter-clutching hand to the front of Jack’s hoodie and turns his whole body into Jack’s encircling arms. Jack can feel him shaking.

“I can be there tomorrow,” Bitty says. There’s a pause. “No, Mama, don’t you worry ’bout that, we got it covered.” Pause. “Mama. Mama, _let me do this_.”

Jack has already reached for his own phone, abandoned on the kitchen counter, and started searching up flights to Atlanta. They’ll need a rental car, too, and maybe a hotel room in Madison? Will staying in a hotel help by making less work for Suzanne, or will it just hurt her feelings …?

“Okay. Okay, Mama, I’ll let you know.” Bitty swallows hard. “Tell Coach, um. Tell him I— tell him I’m on my way.” Pause. “Yes ma’am, I will.” Pause. “Love you, Mama.”

When he ends the call, Bitty sags against Jack’s chest for a long moment. Eventually he takes a big breath, lets it out in a long, shaky _whoosh_ , and says, “I gotta go to Georgia.”

“Okay,” says Jack. “Should we leave tonight or tomorrow morning?”

Bitty looks up at him, frowning. His eyes and nose are red. Jack turns his phone screen to show the options he’s found.

“There’s a nonstop flight at six twenty-five today that we could make,” Jack says. “Or this one at five-fifty-two, but it has a stop in Philly. Or we can leave tomorrow at …” he scrolls down. “Six a.m., nonstop, or ten thirty-five via Philly. Or I can see what options there are from Logan.”

“Jack, you don’t—”

“There’s this one at twelve-thirty-one today, but it’s already ten o’clock so I don’t think—”

“Jack, you have a _game_ tonight. And another one Sunday afternoon.”

“There’s twenty-two other guys on the team, Bits. I’ll tell George—” Jack pauses. “What am I telling George?”

Bitty’s damp eyes close, long lashes sweeping down. As sometimes happens, Jack’s a little shaken by just how much he loves Eric Richard Bittle. “My— Coach is in the hospital,” Bitty says, low. “He was driving to school and— and some asshole ran a red— and— and—”

His voice breaks, and he buries his face in Jack’s hoodie. The first sob convulses his whole body; Jack drops his phone on the counter to wrap both arms around Bitty, holding him strong and tight as he shudders and gasps. _Ugly-crying_ , Bitty would call this, but Jack doesn’t see the ugly: he’s grateful he was here when Suzanne called, grateful that Bitty trusts him enough to let Jack see how _absolutely not okay_ he is right now, grateful to be able to provide this tiny bit of comfort to Bitty, who’s given him so much over the years.

Jack doesn’t say anything, because what could he possibly say? _It’s okay_ , or any variation on it, would be a lie (or at least, a maybe-lie), and one of the bedrock principles of Jack’s life is: Do Not Lie To Bitty.

When the storm is over—at least for the moment—Jack gets Bitty a box of kleenex and a large glass of water and gently makes him sit down on the couch. 

“So, six-twenty-five flight today?” he says. “Or tomorrow morning?”

Bitty’s chin starts to wobble; he presses his lips together so hard they go pale.

“Do you want me to just make some decisions and let you know?” Jack says.

Bitty nods silently, and Jack mentally awards himself a boyfriending gold star.

Sitting on the couch with his left arm around Bitty’s shoulders, he uses his right hand to book two one-way Business Class tickets on the six-twenty-five flight, a rental car to be picked up at Hartsfield-Jackson at nine-thirty, and, just in case, a room at the James Madison Inn, which Google Maps says is closest to the hospital, for the next four nights.

“Bits, I’m gonna go pack us a bag,” he says. “Come and sit with me?”

Sniffling, Bitty obediently follows him up off the couch and into the bedroom. Jack sits him down on the bed and hands him Señor Bun. Bitty’s chin quivers again, and he cuddles the stuffed rabbit close, for once completely unselfconscious about it.

Jack’s halfway through packing, stacking underpants and socks in his duffel bag, when Bitty says, very low, “Coach bought him for me.”

“Hmm?” Jack says, turning around.

“Señor Bun,” says Bitty. He’s looking at the floor, his left thumb stroking the bunny’s ear. “He bought me this book when I was just a baby, _Guess How Much I Love You_? About Big Brown Hare and Little Brown Hare? It’s like … a papa bunny and a li’l baby bunny. And it came with a toy. And him or Mama used to read that book to me ’n’ Bun every night at bedtime.”

There’s a little hiccupping sob, and Bitty curls into himself.

“Oh, Bits.” Jack abandons his packing and goes to kneel at Bitty’s feet. “Oh, bud.”

He wraps his arms awkwardly around Bitty, who doesn’t uncurl but does lean into Jack’s shoulder.

“He _did_ love me,” Bitty sobs. “At least, I thought he did. I wish—”

“Bud, your dad loves you. He does.” Jack’s not sure which of them he’s trying harder to convince. “I know he’s been kind of a jerk about some stuff, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”

Is that the right thing to say? Is it at least _a_ right thing? Jack doesn’t know. But he’s certain he’s not lying, and he _does_ know what it’s like to not be sure whether your dad loves you, or to wonder whether he’ll still love you when he finds out … something you thought he didn’t already know.

“You can’t know that,” says Bitty, muffled. 

Yeah, so maybe Jack missed that shot. He suppresses a sigh.

“Maybe not,” he admits. It _feels_ true, but what proof does Jack have, really? “You know what, though?”

“What?” Bitty looks up at him, trusting, and Jack’s heart clenches with the need to _make things better_.

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says firmly. “What matters is that you need to go be with your mom, and I need to be with you, and we’re gonna do that.”

Bitty sniffles. “Okay,” he says, and swipes his sleeve across his eyes. “Okay.”

*

**@NHLFalcs** Our thoughts are with @JackZimmer1 and his partner who are dealing with a family emergency.

**@espn** Falconers Center @JackZimmer1 will be a healthy scratch vs @NHLFlames on Saturday, citing “family emergency” per @NHLFalcs

**@sportsnet** Roster alert: @NHLFalcs #Zimmermann out till further notice (family emergency) 

**@A91Mashkov** Got your back, @JackZimmer1 @omgcheckplease **❤️**

**@KVP90** Yo @espn you really gonna go there with the scare quotes? #familyisfamily #loveislove

**@dumbhockeyboys** Alexei Mashkov, Kent Parson tweet support to teammate/friend, ignite shipper wars #Potatomann #Jeric #Parskov [ http://bit.ly/2F7TC2H ](http://bit.ly/2F7TC2H)

**@dumbhockeyboys** But seriously, all the best to Jack Zimmermann and his BF, we hope all is OK!

*

They roll into the parking lot of Morgan Memorial Hospital just after ten-thirty (okay, Jack maybe drove a _little_ faster than the speed limit), and Bitty’s out of his seat and out of the car before Jack has even turned off the engine.

Suzanne, forewarned by Bitty’s call 15 minutes ago, is waiting at the entrance of the Emergency department, holding herself together by the elbows the same way Bitty does when he’s upset.

“Oh, Dicky,” she says, as soon as she sees him, and she and Bitty kind of mutually collapse into each other. 

Jack hangs back, hands deep in his pockets, trying not to loom as he watches for cues. Bitty’s shoulders shake; Suzanne buries her face in her son’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around his back. They’re so much alike, the two blonde heads gleaming under the lights, and Jack is suddenly struck by how _young_ Suzanne must have been when Bitty was born. How young she still is, not even twenty years older than Jack himself. He tries to imagine himself, age twenty-two or twenty-three, with a baby, and can’t begin to wrap his mind around the concept.

_… but what about age_ thirty _-two?_ says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his father’s.

Jack tells that part of his brain, politely but firmly, to shut up, because this is absolutely not the time for that discussion.

After some period of time which is possibly two minutes or possibly a couple of hours, Suzanne raises her head and makes apparently startled eye contact with Jack.

“Jack Zimmermann!” she says. “Honey, what are you doin’ here?”

Tabarnak, how is he supposed to answer that question? _Where the hell else would I be right now_ is probably too rude, right? _How else did you think Bitty called you on my phone_ is definitely inappropriate.

“He’s here because I need him, Mama,” Bitty says, before Jack has unfrozen himself. His voice is a bit teary and a bit defiant, and without looking, he reaches out one hand towards Jack.

Jack steps forward, takes Bitty’s hand, and lets himself be folded into the hug. “We’re a team,” he says into Bitty’s hair. “I’m right where I belong.”

*

Coach Bittle is a big man, but immobilized in an ICU bed, he looks much smaller. And even if Suzanne hadn’t filled them in, it would be clear that he’s in pretty bad shape: he seems to be mostly dressings and bandages and splints and IV lines, with bruises in between.

Jack’s hanging back by the door, but he’s close enough to hear Bitty’s sharp gasp, like a bitten-back sob, and to see him clutch at Suzanne’s arm and Suzanne grip back, like they’re holding each other up. 

“Is he,” Bitty asks, very quietly. “Can he … um, can he hear us?”

“He’s just asleep, baby. He wakes up sometimes,” Suzanne says. “He’s on a lot of pain medication, though, so he’s real sleepy and pretty out of it.”

Jack sees some of the tension ease out of Bitty’s shoulders as he takes this in.

“Go ahead and sit with him, baby.” Suzanne gives her son a gentle little push.

Bitty hesitates a little before going over to stand by the bed. He touches his father’s hand, then, when there’s no reaction, wraps his fingers briefly around it. He lets go, eases himself down into the chair by the head of the bed, and puts his face in his hands.

Bitty’s going to cry some more, Jack suspects, so he gently touches Suzanne’s shoulder and when she turns to him, he says quietly, “How are you doing, Suzanne? Can I get you—” he flails momentarily— “a cup of coffee or something?”

Suzanne looks from Jack to Bitty and Coach, uncertain.

“They’ll be okay for a little bit,” says Jack. “And I bet you could use a break, eh?”

This gets a watery smile.

“Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.” He watches Suzanne out the door, then goes to crouch by Bitty’s chair. “I’m taking your mom to get some coffee and a snack,” he says, quiet, right in Bitty’s ear. “I’ll bring you back something. Text me if you need me, okay?”

Bitty nods, without raising his head. His shoulders are shaking slightly, Jack realizes when he presses a kiss to the back of Bitty’s neck.

“It’s gonna be okay, Bits. I love you.”

And with a last squeeze of Bitty’s arm, he unfolds himself and follows Suzanne out the door.

*

**🏒Hockey Haus Alumni🏒**

**Jack** Just so you guys know, and before anything blows up on twitter or whatever, Bittle’s dad was in a car accident and we’re flying down to GA to be with him and Bittle’s mom

**Jack** I’ll try and keep y’all posted because I know you’ll worry, but I really need to focus on Bittle right now. Thanks for understanding

**Chowder** Oh no Bitty!!!!!! :( :( :( Get well soon, Bitty’s dad!!!!

**Dex** Bitty, we’re thinking about you, man. Jack, let us know if there’s anything we can do. ANYTHING.

**Tango** Oh no, that’s awful!! How did it happen? How bad is it? Is he gonna be ok??

**Foxtrot** Jack, Morgan Memorial Hosp in Madison, right? Me and dex are getting a care package ready for the post office tmrw 

**Hopper** I can help with that, hmu

**Nurse** Jack, please give Bitty a big hug from me. And another one from Dex because he won’t say it himself.

**Tango** Sorry Jack. I’ll shut up now and wait for news like everybody else.

**Tango** But also please hug Bitty for me, like, a lot.

**Whiskey** :( :( :(

**Shitty** JACK DO ME N LARDO NEED TO COME DOWN THERE

**Lardo** shitty calm the f down

**Lardo** jack, we’re here if you and bits need us, bro. ilu

**Ollie** Oh, man, that sucks, bro. Give bitty our best

**Wicky** Oh man that sucks, bro. Give Bitty our best

**Johnson** All the best for a speedy recovery. It will be interesting to see where this turn of events leads the narrative.

**Ransom** wtf johnson. Jack, let us know how we can help. Anything you need, bro.

**Holster** ANYTHING

**Chowder** Jack i know you’ll update us when you can but I’m really hoping that can be soon because we’re all really really worried :( :( :(

*

Jack and Suzanne sit across from each other at a wobbly square table in the hospital cafeteria, two paper cups of decaf coffee and a half-eaten blueberry muffin between them. Jack’s phone keeps buzzing; he glances at the screen every time, and every time it’s not Bitty texting him, so he ignores it. He’s already called the hotel and asked them to hold the room even though it looks like they won’t be checking in tonight, and he doesn’t _need_ to talk to anyone else right now. He can hear Suzanne’s phone buzzing in her purse from time to time, but she seems to be ignoring it, too.

Suzanne wraps her hands around her cup, but doesn’t lift it to her mouth. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she says. “That you came all this way with Dicky. Don’t you have— what did you tell your team, Jack?”

_She’s under a lot of stress right now_ , Jack reminds himself. _She’s not_ trying _to be awful._ “I told them Bit— Eric’s dad was in the hospital and we needed to go to Georgia,” he says. _Obviously_ , he doesn’t say. _What else would I tell them_ , he doesn’t say either.

“And they just—” Suzanne stops, looks down at her coffee cup, then up at Jack. “I’m sorry, Jack, honey, I just … I know all of this is normal for y’all, but I’m still gettin’ used to it.”

_You’ve had more than six months_ , Jack doesn’t say. Part of him is furious with her, because how dare she act like there’s anything wrong with Eric Richard Bittle being his sweet, amazing, funny, competent self. Another part is disarmed by her red-rimmed eyes (big brown eyes like Bitty’s) and her sweet slow accent (also like Bitty’s, but more) and by the appalling thought, _What if it were Bitty in that hospital bed, how would YOU feel? Now’s the time to cut her some slack, asshole._

And there’s also the fact that hopefully someday, hopefully _soon_ , Suzanne and Coach will be his in-laws, and if there’s going to be any estrangement Jack’s determined it won’t be because of some dumb-ass thing _he_ did.

So instead of any of the things his angry brain wants to yell at her, he takes a calming breath and says, “Eric and I are a team. He’s always been there for me when I needed him, and right now he needs me to be here for him, so.” He shrugs. “Here I am.”

“I just,” Suzanne says, turning the coffee cup in her hands. “Y’all got here _so fast_ , like it was nothin’, you know? I guess I’m seein’ how the other half lives.” She gives him a watery smile.

“I guess,” Jack agrees. He takes a sip of his coffee. The coffee’s awful, but at least it’s hot—and this conversation is awkward, but at least the awkwardness is about money, which is … not where he was afraid they were heading. Small blessings, as Bitty would say. “Look, I … I know Eric doesn’t love it when he thinks I’m spending too much money on him, so I try not to, but this is different. It would be stupid to make him worry about airfares when it’s so easy for me to just … take care of it, eh?”

The coffee cup does another quarter-turn.

“You’re real good to him,” Suzanne says at last.

“I try my best,” says Jack, honestly. “He deserves it.”

Suzanne looks up at him, for the first time in a while, and Jack is dismayed (although not altogether surprised) to see tears snaking down her cheeks. Of all the things happening right now, _this_ is what makes her cry?

“He does,” she says, letting go of her coffee cup to start shredding a serviette. “I know he does.” Her voice cracks a little; Jack controls a flinch. “I wish— I’m sorry we—”

“Suzanne.” Jack reaches out with one hand, wraps it around both of hers to still them. “I don’t think I’m the person you need to be apologizing to.” He sighs. “And this maybe isn’t what you should be worrying about right now, eh?”

Then it occurs to him that maybe this is a coping strategy—fixating on a thing she can (sort of) control to avoid the thing she really, really can’t—and he should just shut up.

Too late, anyway.

Fortunately, right then Jack’s phone starts buzzing repeatedly—a call, not a text—and when it turns out to be Maman calling him, he’s able to extricate himself by saying, “Sorry, Suzanne, I have to take this.”

He’s kind of ashamed of the relief he experiences when he pushes back from the table, stands, and abandons Bitty’s mom so he can talk to his own in private.

They last talked—well, texted in the family WhatsApp chat—when Jack and Bitty got off the plane in Atlanta, so Jack gives her a quick update. “Bitty’s sitting with his dad now,” he concludes. “I … felt like he needed time? And Suzanne needed to eat something? So we’re in the hospital cafeteria.”

“And how are you doing?” Maman asks him.

“Well, like I said, Bits and Suzanne are both pretty upset—”

“I meant,” Maman interrupts, very gently, “how are _you_ doing, Jackie?”

“Oh.” Jack considers. He’s tired, of course, and he’s worried about the medical situation, and he hates that Bitty has to navigate all the complications of his parents’ prejudices in addition to the actual emergency, but at the same time … 

“I’m … I’m actually really okay, Maman,” he says, and it feels true. “I’m … being here for Bits, like he always is for me. It’s …” He pauses, figuring out how to say what he’s thinking. “I wish this wasn’t happening? But since it is, I’m happy I can help.” 

“That’s good, sweetheart,” Maman says, still gentle. “I’m glad. And I’m sure Eric is very glad, too. Just … remember to take care of yourself too, okay?”

“Ouais, maman. J’vas m’en souv’nir.”

Jack yawns hugely, and Maman clicks her tongue at him and tells him to go get some rest.

*

Suzanne stops with a little gasp, so abruptly that Jack almost walks right into her. Once he’s recovered his balance, he looks over her head and sees why: there’s Coach in his bed, and there’s Bitty slumped over with his butt in the visitor chair and his head resting on his folded arms on the end of the bed by his father’s feet, and also in the bed—tucked into the crook of Coach’s left elbow—is Señor Bun.

It’s this, of all the things he’s seen and heard and said and done in the past twenty-four hours, that makes Jack’s eyes sting with tears. And by the hitching sound of Suzanne’s breathing, it’s hitting her pretty hard, too.

“Oh, my poor boys,” she says, low. Jack thinks frantically, _What would Bits do in this situation_ , and this inspires him to carefully curve one arm around Suzanne’s shoulders.

And apparently that was the right decision, because she turns toward him and presses her damp face against his shoulder. _Sometimes people just need a hug, sweetpea_ , Bitty has said to him more than once; Jack hugs Bitty’s mom, watches Bitty and Coach over her head, and tries not to overthink the situation.

“Jack, honey,” Suzanne says at last, pushing herself gently away from his chest, “I’m real glad you’re here.”

“Euh, not a problem,” Jack says, awkward. But inside, he’s almost smiling. 

*

Bitty is sleeping—everyone is sleeping except Jack and the night-shift nurses, in fact—and it’s dark, or as dark as a hospital ever gets, and Jack’s exhausted but his brain has shifted into CONSTANT VIGILANCE mode, because hospital, and he can’t stop thinking.

He thinks about the games he got himself scratched from, the Falcs’ OT loss to the Bolts tonight (last night? What time even is it?), and how sometimes Calgary’s goalie is a brick wall and sometimes he’s a sieve. He tries not to wonder whether he’s _really sure_ they locked the front door of the apartment on the way out, if maybe he should text Tater and ask him to go check. He thinks about the things he didn’t tell Maman on the phone, because he couldn’t trust himself not to start yelling or crying in front of Suzanne and the cafeteria staff. They’ll be asleep in Providence and Montreal, too, but if he sends some texts now, they’ll see the messages when they wake up, and maybe if he gets this stuff out of his brain he’ll be able to doze off for a little while?

There are notifications, but he ignores them for now; they’ll still be there in the morning.

First he texts a quick update to the Falcs group chat: _In GA with B. His dad is stable. Kick some Flames ass for me._

Then, to Tater: _Hey Tater, could you drop by our place sometime today and double-check the front door is locked?_

Finally he pulls up his WhatsApp thread with his mother and types, _This is what I don’t understand, maman_

_Or maybe I understand it but it just makes me mad?_

_Bittle’s mom called him yesterday and he wanted to come down_ _here right away_

_and he was so upset that he barely_ _even argued with me when I said I was coming_ _too and paid for business class and everything_

_And then he picked up his stuffed bunny and he cried_ _and cried because his dad bought it for him_ _when he was a baby, and he said_

Jack hits Send, blinking angrily, then presses one sleeve to his eyes.

_“He DID love me, at least I thought he did.”_

_I didnt know what to say_

He notices too late that his phone failed to correct that _didnt_ , but decides Maman won’t care.

_How could anybody not love him, maman._

_How could his dad let him think_

Jack backspaces over _think_.

_let him wonder whether he loves him or not_

_When he could just SHOW IT_

_I used to wonder too_

_But I can look back and see that it wasn’t_ _because you and Papa didn’t show me_

_It was my brain being an asshole_

_Shitty calls it Jerk Brain and I like that a lot_

_He got it from a blog_

_Because its my brain but it isnt me?_

_Like when Papa would take me out back to the rink to practise my shot,_ _I thought that meant I wasn’t good enough and I_

_needed to work harder_

_but really he just wanted_ _us to hang out and do hockey together,_ _because he loves me and we both love hockey?_

_I don’t know what that would look like for coach and Bits_ _but whatever it is it seems like coach hasn’t been doing it_

_When bits and I have kids I will make sure_ _they know I love them no matter what_

Jack looks at that last text and closes his eyes briefly, because he has a feeling that tomorrow he’ll regret having opened that can of worms. Then again … Maman’s not exactly unaware of how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with Bitty, so.

He opens his eyes again and carefully types,

_Je t’aime maman_ 💛

Then he slides his phone into the pocket of his hoodie, closes his eyes again, and arranges himself as comfortably as he can in the horrible hospital visitor chair.

*

Jack wakes up because his phone is buzzing incessantly against his abs, like there’s a hornet’s nest in his hoodie pocket.

_Qu’est-ce que ça tabarnak?!_ he thinks blearily, digging out the phone.

He holds it in one hand and rubs his eyes with the other. There are notifications scrolling down the screen, so many that it takes him a minute to even figure out where they’re coming from. The time, he eventually notices, is 05h02. Uh. 5:02 a.m.

Right, because 5 a.m. is when his phone comes off do-not-disturb mode.

He unlocks his phone and finds that the Haus Alumni chat is blowing up. His Twitter account, which he rarely uses himself and only has on his phone because Shawnda in Falcs PR insisted, is blowing up. He has 78 new emails, 649 Facebook notifications, and well over a thousand new text messages. 

“Tabarnak d’ostie d’câlice,” he breathes, and locks the phone again.

Then he has another, much more terrible thought: if this is what _Jack_ ’s phone looks like, how much worse must Bitty’s be?

Bitty put his phone in Airplane mode last night when they got on the plane, and he used Jack’s to call Suzanne from the car, and Jack can’t remember seeing him touch his own since they got to Georgia. He hasn’t heard it buzzing, either, which suggests it’s either still offline or has just run out of battery—which wouldn’t be surprising at this point.

There’s a rustling sound to Jack’s right, and when he turns he sees Bitty stirring restlessly, a frown creasing his still-exhausted face. 

“Ssshh,” Jack murmurs. “Y faut pas t’éveiller encore, bud.”

Bitty’s frown smooths out; he turns minutely towards Jack, eyes still closed, and Jack feels like his heart is clenching in his chest with how much he wants to _make everything better_ and can’t. But then he sees the corner of Bitty’s phone tilting out of his hoodie pocket, and thinks of something—a tiny thing, but better than nothing—that he _can_ do.

He leans closer, stretches out his hand, and slips the phone out of Bitty’s pocket and into his own.

*

**Ransom & Holster**

Guys, I need a favour.

**Ransom** You got it

**Holster** What do you need

It’s actually for Bittle. 

My texts and twitter and everything are blowing up, so I’m assuming his are even worse

I think someone needs to deal with that for him

And … I don’t know how??

**Ransom** Bro

**Holster** Got your back

**Ransom** So the first thing you do ...

  
  


*

Morning rounds just after 6:00 wakes everybody up, and Jack has to leave Coach’s room because he’s not immediate family—which makes him wonder belatedly why nobody tried to keep him out last night, but whatever, sometimes the universe does a nice thing, and who is he to argue? 

He sits on the floor in the hallway, back against the wall, Bitty’s phone charging in a wall outlet that’s almost certainly meant for floor polishers and like … life-saving medical equipment, and starts to slog through what turns out to be _literally thousands_ of text messages, emails, Twitter and Instagram and Facebook notifications … 

On the one hand, _Câlice de fucking crisse_ _, how does Bitty even_ know _this many people?!_ On the other hand, Bitty is … well … _Bitty_ , so why is Jack surprised? And it’s good to know Bitty has so many people in his corner—after all, if something happened to Jack—

_No, nope,_ _on va pas y penser, mon gars_ , Jack tells himself sternly. Jack really, _really_ does not like hospitals, but he is crissement going to stay in this one until Bitty doesn’t need him to be here anymore, dammit.

And he is going to help in any way he can, even if it’s by answering twenty billion text messages and Twitter DMs from people he’s never even heard of. 

He is, after all, a professional athlete: If there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s focusing in and getting the job done. 

Bitty’s phone screen is too small for his hands ( _My hands are a normal size, Mr. Zimmermann!_ says Bitty’s voice in his head, all sass) and he mistypes various iterations of _This is Jack. We are at the hospital with Eric’s parents. One of us will let you know when we know more_ in a whole range of ways before it occurs to him that he could type it on his own phone, text it to Bitty’s, and then just copy it and keep on pasting.

Bitty comes out into the hallway just as Jack is moving from WhatsApp over to Twitter, and Jack looks up from Bitty’s sneakers to his pale, puffy-eyed face.

“Hey, Bits,” he says.

He starts to uncurl so he can stand up, but Bitty turns around, leans his back against the wall, and slides down it until he’s sitting next to Jack, slumping heavily against his shoulder.

“The doctor said Coach is gonna be fine,” he says, quiet. Jack nudges him till he sits up a little, then curls an arm around his shoulders and snugs him in close again. “His heart and his blood pressure an’ everything look good, I guess? And everything’s gonna heal up okay. Like, eventually. With a lot of PT and stuff.”

“That’s great, bud,” Jack says. “I’m really glad to hear it.” He makes a mental note to look into whether the Bittles will need any help with medical costs, and if so, ask his parents whether there might be any way to offer that help without giving offence.

Bitty sags against his side, turns his face into Jack’s shoulder. “Mama told me I should go get some sleep,” he says. “I told her she should go. I don’t—” he yawns hugely, then sniffles. “I don’t— I’m afraid if I go—”

“Bits, listen.” Jack rests his cheek on the top of Bitty’s head. They both smell like guys who haven’t showered in a while—which is to say, kind of gross—but he takes a deep, grounding breath of Bitty-hair-smell anyway. “This isn’t your fault, okay? It’s not your fault some asshole ran a red and hit your dad’s car, and it’s not your fault he’s in the hospital, and it won’t be your fault if he, um, if he has a little setback while you’re taking a nap at the hotel, okay?” It’s a struggle not to knock his free fist against his head to ward off bad luck, but, thanks to willpower and many, many years of therapy, it’s a struggle he manages to win, this time. “Shit happens, or it doesn’t, and it’s not because of anything you did or didn’t do.”

“Hotel?” Bitty says, sitting up a little straighter in the circle of Jack’s arm. “What hotel?”

Which is … not really the part Jack was hoping he’d focus on? But at least it’s something that isn’t some version of _my dad is in the hospital and things aren’t so good between us and I’m afraid if I leave the hospital he’ll die and we won’t have figured our shit out._

“I thought we might need a place to stay that wasn’t making extra work for your mom?” Jack explains. “So I got us a room at a hotel down the street. James Madison Inn? It was the closest.”

Bitty blinks at him.

“Bud, you need to sleep,” says Jack.

“Sweetpea, that’s the most expensive—”

“Does it have a bed? Does it have a shower?” Jack keeps his tone gentle, even though part of him sort of wants to scream. “That’s all that matters. You said to make some decisions, so I did. C’mon, ma chouette, let’s go.”

He stands up and holds out a hand to Bitty, who blinks at him some more but finally grabs it and lets Jack pull him up to his feet. 

He stumbles; Jack pulls him in close, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

*

**Maman**

I don’t know what to tell you, Jackie. 

Everyone wants to be the best possible parent at all times, but everyone fucks up.

We just all fuck up in different ways.

OK but

Baby, you know Papa and I love you. But you can’t tell me we did everything right when you were younger.

When you put it like that, no.

But you didn’t lose your shit when you found out I’m not straight, so

(And don’t think I didn’t catch that thing you said, because we are coming back to that as soon as the crisis is over)

The big secret of parenting is, NOBODY knows what they’re doing. We’re all just making it up as we go

I don’t think for ONE SECOND that Suzanne and Rick don’t love Eric every bit as much as we love you.

Comme t’as dit, how could anyone not?

I’m trying really, really hard to believe that, maman :-(

But does that even matter, if they don’t show it?

I’m serious. What’s the practical difference between “my dad doesn’t love me” and “my dad loves me but doesn’t bother to show it”? 

I don’t know what to say, Jackie 😔

Except, Papa and I love you both so much

jtm aussi maman

How did you boys sleep?

Bitty slept. I didn’t really? But it’s OK

On est a l’hotel

He’s still sleeping and I’m just here trying to be quiet

Make sure he eats something

Of course, maman

Make sure you BOTH eat something

And give him some extra hugs from me and Papa

I will

Maman I have to go now, Bitty just woke up

OK, baby. Keep us posted 💕

*

“Jack?”

“Over here, Bits.” Jack unfolds himself from the hotel room’s luxurious chaise longue—it really is a nice hotel—and re-folds himself around his bleary-eyed, sleepy-warm boyfriend. Bitty slumps against his chest with a long sigh.

“You don’t have to get up yet, bud. You can go back to sleep if you need—”

“No, no, I’m up,” says Bitty, muffled into Jack’s hoodie. “I’m up.” He yawns. “Is there coffee?”

“There can be. Give me five minutes.”

The in-room coffee apparatus is some kind of high-end Keurig thing, and more importantly the mini fridge includes little containers of real milk and half-and-half, instead of that disgusting powdered creamer they used to get, when they got anything, during Samwell roadies. (Jack doesn’t drink his coffee with cream, not anymore, but he objects on principle to the idea of putting edible oil product in coffee.) It doesn’t take even five minutes to produce a mug of coffee with (way too much) cream and sugar and hand it to Bitty, who closes his eyes and inhales like someone having a religious experience.

(Or so Jack supposes; religion isn’t really his thing, unless you count hockey.)

“Thank you, sweetpea,” he says, after a couple of long swigs. “Have I mentioned I love you?”

A smile tugs up the corners of Jack’s mouth. “I don’t mind hearing it again. Love you too, bud.”

Bitty puts down the coffee mug and picks up his phone, which Jack plugged in when they arrived. He glances at the screen, frowns slightly, and puts it down again.

“I, um,” says Jack. “I answered some messages for you? And then I put your phone on Do Not Disturb except for your mom’s number, so we’d know if she called or texted about your dad.”

“Oh!” says Bitty. “Oh, honey, thank you, that’s … wait, how did— do you even know how to do that?”

“Well. I didn’t, but Ransom and Holster did, so.”

For the first time in what feels like weeks, Bitty smiles. Well, sort of smiles.

“This boy,” he says, looking back down at his phone.

*

Jack shepherds Bitty into the shower, into clean clothes, downstairs to the hotel restaurant for … probably it’s not really breakfast at almost two in the afternoon? The last hurrah of Saturday brunch, then. While Bitty sits at a two-top table toying absently with the stem of his water glass, Jack hits up the buffet, heaping two plates with scrambled eggs, sausage links, breakfast potatoes, fresh fruit, and whole-wheat toast.

Bitty drinks two more cups of coffee, and he keeps his phone right by his plate in case Suzanne calls or texts him. But he eats almost everything on his plate with only a little prompting, so Jack doesn’t say anything about his caffeine intake.

They’re back at the hospital by three, and Suzanne meets them outside Coach’s room looking like she’s also managed to get a nap in. She hugs them both at once, then Bitty again.

And this whole thing _sucks balls_ , but Jack’s also so, so glad to see Bitty’s mom hugging him like she used to, back before they blindsided her on live TV. Like maybe Jack’s impulsive actions haven’t completely ruined Bitty’s relationship with his beloved Mama after all. 

(He would never say that out loud, because as soon as he even thinks it, he can hear two voices in his head: Bitty’s _We made that impulsive decision_ together _, sweetpea,_ and his therapist’s _Eric’s parents’ reactions are theirs to control, not yours_. 

But.)

“Things are looking real good, baby,” Suzanne says, with a tired version of her (Bitty’s) genuinely happy smile. “Your daddy’s got a regular room on the surgical floor now, I texted you the number, and it looks like they can do the surgery on his leg and arm by the end of this week if the swelling keeps goin’ down like it has been.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I’m gonna go home and freshen up now that y’all are here, if that’s OK?”

“Mama, you ain’t been home yet?” Bitty says. He sounds appalled, and also guilty as fuck, and Jack feels bad even though he still maintains that kidnapping him to the hotel for a good long nap was the right thing to do.

“It’s fine, Dicky,” Suzanne insists. “They’ve been real nice and found me one of those pull-out chairs to nap on, and you know I’m no giant like Jack here, I got a good few hours on there and I was real comfy. I do need a shower somethin’ fierce, though.” She wrinkles her nose delicately, like Bitty occasionally does when Jack’s extra gross after a workout.

“But if I’d realized—”

“Bits, why don’t you go sit with your dad?” Jack suggests, cutting off the otherwise inevitable apology arms race before it can really get going. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Bitty glances between Jack and his mother, a tiny furrow forming between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t comment, just kisses each of them on the cheek and goes. 

Jack tries not to notice how much the little furrow between the eyebrows looks just the same on Suzanne’s face as on Bitty’s.

“We’ve got a room at the James Madison Inn, just down the street,” he says. Suzanne’s eyebrows go up, but, tellingly, she looks much less surprised than Bitty did. “If you’d like to go use the shower, take a nap—it’s closer than your place, and you could get something to eat that you won’t have to cook—I mean—” he flounders for a moment, realizing that Suzanne probably also wants a change of clothes and is definitely not going to find that in Jack or Bitty’s luggage, and he’s not even completely sure the hotel _is_ closer than the Bittles’ house. “I mean obviously if you’d rather go home, be in your own space—”

“Jack, honey,” Suzanne says, giving him a tired smile and putting a hand on his elbow. “I’m gonna just go on home, get some clean clothes and a cup of coffee. Nothing’s too far from anything around here. But it’s real sweet of you to offer.” She doesn’t make a move towards the exit, though—just stands there with Jack, looking vaguely in the direction Bitty went.

“Rick took me to a fancy hotel like that one time,” she says, after a moment. “Over in Athens, right after he started his first job out of college. He thought it’d be a nice place to propose, but he was so darn nervous about doin’ it, he spilled wine all over himself and then dropped the ring into his mashed potatoes.”

Maybe it’s because Jack’s seeing her smile in three-quarter profile that it looks lopsided and sad.

“I still said yes, though,” she adds. “And just as well I did, ’cause didn’t Dicky come along eight and a half months later.” She turns and looks up at Jack, considering. “Guess y’all don’t have to worry about that, huh.”

Jack blinks.

“He’s a good man,” Suzanne continues, turning back to stare at the double doors. “He loves his son. He just … it wasn’t like it is now, you know?”

_You’re not even twenty years older than me,_ Jack doesn’t say. _My parents are older than you, and they’ve never acted like there was something wrong with me being bi_ , he also doesn’t say _._ He most especially doesn’t say, _Either you love all of Eric, exactly how he is, or it doesn’t count._

Unfortunately, the hard mental work of not saying any of those things somehow causes his brain-to-mouth filter to short-circuit, and instead he says, “Don’t worry, I won’t drop the ring in the mashed potatoes.” 

And then Jack has to stop himself from literally slapping a hand over his mouth, because, yeah, there’s a ring, and yeah, he absolutely wants to marry Bitty, but he hadn’t planned to mention it to Bitty’s _parents_ until, well. Shouldn’t Bitty be the one to do that? 

But Suzanne turns again and looks up at him, and she’s smiling wide and bright. “Jack Zimmermann,” she says, “You did _not_ just ask permission to marry my only son by _making fun of his father_.”

_T’as crissement fucked up, mon gars_ _,_ Jack thinks, and also, _Wait, I was supposed to ask_ permission _?!_

“Euh,” he says. “I, euh. I didn’t—”

The smile freezes on Suzanne’s face. “Oh,” she says, a little chilly. “I’m sorry, I misunder—”

“Of _course_ I want to marry Eric!” Jack blurts out, horrified. “I just. This wasn’t how I meant for you to find out.”

“Well, then.” Suzanne’s tone of voice warms right up, and her smile goes wistful but genuine. Jack’s not sure when he got so good at interpreting Bitty’s mother’s facial expressions, but he’s sure it has something to do with practising on Bitty. “You’ll need to talk to his Daddy, but you have my blessing, anyway.” She pats his arm. “You’re a good man, Jack Zimmermann.”

Then she yawns, a yawn too big to be covered by her tiny little hand, and says, “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, hon. I’ll bring back something for supper, don’t any of y’all go eatin’ any more of that hospital cafeteria food.”

And off she goes towards the main entrance and the parking lot, leaving Jack standing in a hospital corridor like a pylon, trying to process what the fuck just happened to him.

*

  
  


**ERB ❤️🏒🥧**

Sweetpea?

Wya?

Sorry Bits! Just talking to your mom

On my way

🤔

  
*  
  
  


Coach is sitting up in bed—for a certain value of “sitting up”—when Jack pokes his head through the door of his new room, which is a double but seems not to have another occupant currently. He’s looking off to Jack’s right, and when Jack follows his gaze he sees Bitty fussing with one of about a dozen flower arrangements that have appeared since they left the hospital this morning.

Jack spots Señor Bun half-hidden behind a bright yellow vase.

“‘Get well soon, Coach! Best wishes from the Junior Varsity Team,’” Bitty reads aloud from one of those little florist’s cards, plucked from the top of a big vase of red and orange flowers. Jack watches him put that card back and reach for another one: “‘Get well soon, Rick! Love from Peggy, Bobby, Tyler, Jessalyn and Matt.’ Lord, Coach, I don’t even know who all they are.”

“Folks from church,” says Coach after a moment, in a hoarse and scratchy voice. His right shoulder hitches like he’s trying to for a dismissive shrug but doesn’t have the range of motion.

“Euh, hi,” says Jack, awkward.

Two Bittle faces turn to look at him, one puffy with bruises and one suspiciously red around the eyes. Bitty looks slightly hunted; Coach looks … startled.

_Didn’t he realize I was here?_

“Jack!” Bitty says. “There you are! I was fixin’ to send out a search party. Did Mama go on home?”

“Yeah,” says Jack. There’s something odd about Bitty’s expression, his voice, his words—Jack can’t quite identify it but there’s something. “She said she’s bringing back food for dinner and not to eat at the hospital cafeteria.”

Bitty’s chuckle is just a tiny bit too high-pitched.

Jack looks at Bitty’s dad, who’s kind of squinting at them. Painkillers, eh. “Hi, Coach,” he says. “It’s, euh. Good to see you awake.”

“Jack Zimmermann,” says Coach. His voice is morphine-slow, too, and Jack has to stop himself from wincing in sympathy. “Huh.”

The weight of that gaze is a little daunting, but Jack’s had enough practice facing down nosy reporters, hard-ass coaches, and homophobic opponents that he’s pretty sure he doesn’t show it. 

Coach blinks, clears his throat; his voice is still scratchy when he says, “That was a good goal you scored against the Rangers.”

“Um,” says Jack, thinking back—that was … three games ago? “Thank you, sir. Um. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve had worse,” says Coach. There’s that aborted shoulder-shrug again, the suppressed grimace. 

“Coach, you _know_ we all know that ain’t true.” Bitty’s been still and silent for so long that the sound of his voice—going for exasperated chirping and _mostly_ nailing it—makes the other two turn their heads to look at him. He’s standing there by the flowers, hands on hips, glancing from father to boyfriend and back. “Y’all are just like each other, I swear.”

Jack chuckles sheepishly; Bitty’s not exactly wrong about that.

Coach looks at them, blinks, lifts his one semi-mobile hand in a little flap/wave. “You boys sit down,” he says. “I’m gettin’ a crick in my neck.”

There’s only one chair—someone must’ve moved the one Suzanne slept on—and Jack and Bitty gesture each other towards it. Finally Jack just sits down, grabs Bitty’s hand, and tugs him into his lap.

They sit like this _all the time_ —at home, at the Haus, at Haus 2.0 in Cambridge, even occasionally at Falcs things if they’re informal ones—so there’s no reason Bitty should be stiff and awkward, almost but not quite resisting, perching carefully with his ass half on the chair arm instead of cuddling close … no reason, that is, except that this is the most physical Coach has probably ever seen them be with each other. At least in real life, Jack corrects himself.

Over Bitty’s tense shoulder, Jack meets Coach’s gaze. _I’m not ashamed_ , he tries to convey. _Not only am I not ashamed, I’m proud. Anyone would be proud if Bitty chose them. I’m proud to be with him and I’m proud_ of _him, and you should be, too._

That’s … a lot to try and say without words, especially to someone doped up on PCA morphine. Jack would laugh at himself, but.

After a moment, Coach nods once, slowly.

Jack nods back.

He has absolutely no idea what, if anything, they’ve just said to each other.

A minute passes, or maybe a few minutes, or maybe an hour, Jack’s honestly not sure. And then the door opens and a nurse (?) comes in, carrying a large FedEx box. Bitty practically levitates off Jack’s lap and seems to be trying to pretend he was standing next to the chair this whole time.

“Mail call!” the probably-nurse says cheerfully. He’s a big Black dude, taller and bulkier than Jack, wearing purple scrubs and bright blue Crocs and a gold cross dangling from one earlobe. “Where do y’all want this? Hey, looks like we could use another chair over here.”

He puts the box down on the floor — to be honest, it’s probably too big to fit anywhere else anyway — and disappears behind the divider curtain for a moment; when he comes back, he’s holding another chair like the one Jack’s still sitting in, which he positions on the far side of Coach’s bed.

“Thank you,” says Bitty. Coach echoes him, with another of those nods he does.

“You’re very welcome!” And the probably-nurse is gone again.

Jack stands up and crouches on the floor with Bitty to look at the FedEx box. It’s addressed to COACH BITTLE, ℅ MORGAN COUNTY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL, and the sender is listed as DENICE M. FORD, SAMWELL UNIVERSITY. Aside from the shipping label, every visible square centimetre is covered with doodles and messages and signatures in various colours of Sharpie.

“Well now,” Bitty says, his voice a little wobbly again. “Ain’t that nice.” He swallows visibly, then turns, hands on hips, to look at his father — and somehow in that micro-interval he seems to have regained his balance. “Coach, this is from the folks at the Hockey Haus — you remember you met Denice and Jonathan, and Will and Derek and Tony? — you want us to open it up for you?” 

The box is full of tupperware containers — chocolate-chip cookies, brownies, oatmeal raisin cookies, sugar cookies shaped like footballs, some kind of jam and pastry situation that got a bit squashed in transit — sports magazines, a couple of John Grisham paperbacks, a hand-knitted toque and scarf in Samwell colours, an insulated Samwell travel tumbler, and at the very bottom, four greeting-card-sized envelopes with names written on them:

_Bitty_

_Jack_

_Coach Bittle_

_Mama Bittle_

Bitty shakes his head with a fond smile. “These kids,” he says, like some of them aren’t less than a year younger than him. And it hits Jack then, what’s happened: Bitty’s been reminded that he’s the captain, that up in Massachusetts there are twenty-two young men (plus Ford) who look up to him and depend on him. That he may be the youngest person in this hospital room at this moment, but he’s still an adult.

Jack hands out the envelopes, props up Suzanne’s amongst the flower arrangements where she’ll hopefully see it, and then realizes that Coach only has that one working hand and is going to need help. Before he can offer, though, Bitty’s there, slitting open the envelope and pulling out a greeting card with … is that Snoopy spinning a football on the front? 

“‘Get well soon, Coach Bittle!’” Bitty reads, leaning over his dad’s shoulder to show him the inside of the card. “‘Hope this stuff makes being in the hospital suck a bit less.’ Aww, that was definitely Tony, bless his heart. And look, Coach, they all signed it.”

Coach smiles. “That’s mighty kind of them, Junior.”

“You taught ’em well, bud,” says Jack.

He belatedly opens his own card, the front of which features a picture of … Huh. Of Superman, with surprisingly accurate skates, gloves, and hockey stick added in black Sharpie, along with a shark in the corner. Jack lets out a quiet snort.

_Hey, Jack!_ It says on the inside. _We’re glad you can be there for Bitty and have his back when we can’t. Not all heroes wear capes, eh?_

Jack feels like the furthest thing from Superman, but Chowder’s always kind of had that hero-worship thing going on, despite Jack’s best efforts.

He looks up; Bitty’s reading his own card now, and very obviously trying not to cry. “These kids,” he says again.

“Hey, Bits,” says Jack. “Want a brownie?”

*

**🏒Hockey Haus Alumni🏒**

**Jack** Thanks for the care package, y’all. We all appreciate it.

**Jack** Excellent artwork, Chowder :-)

**Foxtrot** Hey, glad it got there safe! How’s Bitty’s dad??

**Chowder** How did you know it was me???

**Jack** Much better! He’ll have surgery in a few days and have a ton of physio to get through, but he’s expected to make a full recovery

**Ransom** That’s PT, for the americans in the crowd

**Jack** … yeah, that

**Foxtrot** Wonderful to hear! Thanks for letting us know

**Jack** But really, guys, thanks so much. It really means a lot to Bitty

**Dex** Got your back, bro

**Nursey** Got your back

**Chowder** Got your back!!!

*

Over the next two days, Bitty and Suzanne between them make a total of five attempts to send Jack home. By the end of the second day, Jack’s still there. He’s not sure he completely understands his own attitude, but somewhere along the way, without really thinking about it, he seems to have made a decision to stay here as long as Bitty does.

By Thursday, though, it’s pretty clear that there’s not a lot of ways they can be useful here that they couldn’t accomplish just as well from home, and when Suzanne starts fretting about how much his team must miss them, he takes her side in the debate for the first time.

“Eric’s team’ll be missing him, too,” he says. “Bits, I think it might be time to go home.”

“Jack’s right, Junior,” says Coach, and from her chair by the head of the bed Suzanne nods.

“It was real good of y’all to come down here, and we’re glad you did,” she says, “but we’re gonna be just fine now, okay? I mean it, Dicky, we’ll be _fine_.”

Bitty looks up at Jack, biting his lip, then back at his parents. “I just,” he says. “I don’t want—”

Suzanne puts down her cross-stitch (Jack now knows what cross-stitch is, and how it’s different from needlepoint and embroidery, which is knowledge he suspects he’ll never need again in his life), stands up, and comes over to hug Bitty, who hugs her back tight.

“It’s been wonderful having y’all here,” she says, after a minute. “I know I tried to talk you out of flying down here like you did, but it was the right thing to do and I’m glad you didn’t listen to me this time.”

Jack’s pretty sure he hears a snort from Coach at the words _this time_.

“But, honey,” Suzanne says, pulling back a little and looking up earnestly at her son, “you need to go back to—back _home_ , and finish your classes and finish your season, and we’ll still be here when you’re done, okay? I _promise_.”

By this time Bitty’s stopped pretending not to cry, which is honestly kind of a relief.

The semi-argument goes on for another few rounds, but by Thursday lunchtime Bitty’s conceded that Jack can go ahead and book them a flight back to Boston, and by Friday morning they’re saying goodbye.

“Jack,” Coach says gruffly, as they’re heading out the door.

Jack turns.

“C’mere a second.”

“Dicky,” says Suzanne, “let’s go down to the gift shop! I’ll get you some of those sweet-and-sour suckers you like, for the flight,” so this is obviously a parental conspiracy and Jack might as well go with it.

He goes back over to the bed, and sits down. He’s not sure what’s coming—shovel talk? some kind of lecture? embarrassing Bitty stories?—but whatever it is, he’ll just … he’ll handle it.

Instead, Coach Bittle reaches out his less-injured hand, and Jack, bemused, shakes it.

“You’re a good man, Jack,” Coach says. “You’re … I can tell y’all make each other happy. You and Junior. I’m sorry if we uh. Got off on the wrong foot.”

“It’s—”

“No, let me talk, please.”

Jack shuts up.

“Dicky’s not exactly the son I expected to have when I was y’all’s age,” says Coach, “but he’s a damn fine son, and I’m proud of him.”

“I’m, euh,” says Jack, pleased and astonished. “I’m proud of him too, sir.” 

“Him and his mama, they have big imaginations,” Coach continues. “So I’m takin’ this with a grain of salt, but Suzie seems to think you’ve got a ring stashed somewhere?”

“Euh,” says Jack.

Coach smiles at him. Jack has never noticed before how much, from certain angles, he looks like Bitty. (Or, he supposes, Bitty looks like him.)

“Well, good luck with it,” he says. “You take care of yourself, son. Take care of each other.”

“Thank you,” says Jack. “I— you take care too, sir.”

He retreats, trying to process what just happened.

*

**June 2017**

**Shitty, Lardo, Chowder...**

Y’all, I need a favour.

**Shitty** What up, Jackabelle?

**Dex** That “y’all” is a fine, Cap

OK, one, you can’t fine me anymore

And two, you’re the captain now, Dex

**Nursey** Wait fam, Bittys not in this chat

**Chowder** Guys maybe we should let jack talk???

As I was saying, I need a favour

How many of you will be around for graduation?

**Chowder** Jack are you planning to propose???

Wait

How did you know?

**Shitty** Jack. Bro of my heart. Bro of my kidney

**Shitty** We’re all just surprised you haven’t done it already

**Ollie** You and Bits are getting hitched? Sweet!

**Wicky** Us too 

**Lardo** Nice, bros

**Ollie** 🤜 

**Wicky** 🤛

OK, so here’s what I’m thinking...

*

Jack didn’t seriously think Bitty would say no to his marriage proposal—if you don’t think you’re going to get a yes to that question, in Jack’s opinion, you almost certainly shouldn’t be asking it—so he wasn’t entirely prepared for the level of euphoric happiness he feels when Bitty says yes. In the chill ice-smelling air of Faber Memorial Arena, where the two of them began, where everything began, a whole hoped-for future seems to open out in front of him: a wedding, a house, a backyard rink, a dog, team BBQs, _kids_ . All the someday things they’ve talked about over the past two years suddenly seem a hundred percent more real, more imminent, and Jack is _here for it,_ as Shitty would say.

They hug and they cry and they play pick-up hockey with their friends, and for a little while, there’s no room in Jack’s brain for anything but straight-up triumphant joy.

They pack the last of Bitty’s possessions into the back of Jack’s truck.

They go to dinner with their parents, Bitty shows off his ring, there’s more hugging and more crying, Maman and Suzanne are already starting a wedding-planning Pinterest board on their phones by the time dessert arrives. Papa smiles benevolently, makes dad jokes, and suggests increasingly ridiculous toasts. Coach Bittle is quieter, but he looks … satisfied, like things are working out the way he expected.

After dinner, they linger outside the restaurant, saying goodbye.

“Son,” Coach says, putting his non-cane-holding hand on Bitty’s shoulder.

“Coach?”

“Y’all’re coming down for a few weeks in July?”

“You know they are, Rick,” Suzanne says.

“I was thinking,” says Coach, still focused on Bitty. “You should help me build the new deck.” He glances up. “And Jack too, if he’s willing.”

Jack’s happy to help out, of course, but he’s frankly baffled by the expression on Bitty’s face—like someone just offered him an all-expenses-paid tour of every pâtisserie in Paris.

“Sure thing, Daddy,” Bitty says, and squeezes Jack’s hand so hard it hurts. “That sounds great.”

*

“So we’re building a deck, eh?” Jack doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but in his peripheral vision he sees Bitty’s face turn towards him.

“I know!” Bitty says. His voice sounds … awed. “Can you believe he did that?”

“Um,” says Jack. “I … I think I might be missing something?”

“Jack,” says Bitty. “Jack, my father asked _me_ to help him build the new deck. Not my cousin Billy, not one of his football boys, _me_.”

“And me,” Jack can’t help pointing out, in the interests of accuracy.

“Yes,” Bitty concedes, “but he asked me _first._ You were standing right there, looking like … _that_ ,” Jack sees Bitty’s hands waving vaguely in his direction, “being a great big professional athlete who could probably bench-press me—”

“Definitely. I can definitely bench-press you.”

“Stop it, you moose.” But there’s a smile in Bitty’s voice. “ _Anyway_ , don’t you see? Coach asked _me_ to help _him_ with a … a _man thing_! I swear, if you’d asked me a year ago if that would ever happen, I’d have said no, never in a million years.”

_Oh_ , Jack thinks, with sudden understanding. _So this is Coach Bittle’s practising shots on the backyard rink._

“I get what you mean now, I think?” he says. “It’s like … it’s like with hockey …”

**Author's Note:**

> How do hospitals work? It’s been almost 2 decades since I was a patient in one (and I’ve never even visited one in the US, except for a couple days in 1999 before my grandma z”l was discharged home to hospice), so please accept my loving but under-researched handwaving.
> 
> Thanks to [turifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turifer/profile) for brainstorming help and extensive discussions of How Webcomic Dads Show Love. Thanks to [zaftig_darling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaftig_darling/profile) for the title (from Dylan Thomas’s “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night”) and for Suzanne’s excuse for leaving Jack alone with Coach.
> 
> **Translations:**  
>  Ouais, maman. J’vas m’en souv’nir = Yeah, mom, I'll remember  
> Je t’aime maman = I love you, mom  
> Qu’est-ce que ça tabarnak?! = What the fuck?!  
> Tabarnak d’ostie d’câlice = ummm approximately "holy fucking shit"? Idk, it's a string of swear words, draw your own conclusions  
> Y faut pas t’éveiller encore = you don't have to wake up yet  
> Câlice de fucking crisse = see above re: string of swear words  
> on va pas y penser, mon gars = we're not gonna think about that, my guy / my dude / buddy  
> crissement = approx. fucking well / bloody well (intensifier)  
> ma chouette = my little owl  
> Comme t’as dit = like you said  
> jtm aussi = ilu too [jtm = je t'aime]  
> On est a [should be à] l’hotel = we're at the hotel  
> T’as crissement fucked up, mon gars = Ya really fucked that up, dude


End file.
